Mother knows best
by Bag End
Summary: Even our favourite spooks have meddling relatives.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I tried to stay as canon as possible, sticking to the TV show and the tie-in book "[Spooks]- The Personnel files", from which I got the information about Zaf´s family and religious background. Because this is a sensitive subject, I quoted some phrases verbatim. This story does not mean to disrespect Islam in any way

Like every Thursday night, three attractive, well-groomed women in their fifties sat at the corner table of "Brioche", a lovely French bakery in Croydon. Sarah Younis, Amina Ahmadi and Lilian Foster had met at their yoga-class and bonded quickly over everyday (and sometimes not quite so everyday) issues. They never ordered anything with more calories than a salad and a coffee, which was driving the staff insane. But a customer was a customer, no matter what they ordered.

Amina sighed and massaged her neck. "The warm-up today was particularly intense, wasn´t it? I miss Rita. The new girl is a drill-sergeant." Sarah nodded in agreement. "How is she so flexible?" The women moaned over their various, yoga-induced injuries until the waiter brought their salads. "By the way, did I tell you that my baby is finally back in the country, living with us again?" Amina remarked. Her "baby" was her twenty-eight-year old daughter Rashida, who had spent the previous three years working for the British embassy in Riyadh. Lilian looked at her. "You don´t seem overly thrilled. Don´t worry, I am sure she will find her own place soon, now that she is back for good. She´s back for good, isn´t she?" Lilian knew that she was violating the unspoken "Don´t pry" - agreement, but she couldn´t help it. Amina nodded. "Yes, she is. I love that she is living in her old room again. I know I shouldn´t say this out loud, but I do. No, I am worried about her. Since she came back, she is... She prays. She hasn´t touched a drop of alcohol. And she has an Arabic Quran. Which she hid at the back of her drawer, by the way. Why would she hide it?" With a hasty glance to Sarah she added "I don´t mean that being a Muslim is something to worry about. God, no. I mean, technically Bassem and I still are... kind of. But..." She was looking for the right words that wouldn´t offend her friend. Sarah was married to a first-generation Pakistani lawyer, who was a lapsed Muslim. Sarah raised her hand to shut her up. "Don´t worry, you can speak freely." She thought for a moment. "I´d prefer this to be between us, okay?" Her friends nodded in agreement. "When my Zaf was in secondary school, he went through a... phase. He fell in with the wrong crowd, started to go to a really conservative mosque... Thank God it didn´t last long. His brothers pulled him out of it. And then he went away to University and... well, it was a 180 degree change." She rolled her eyes. "No idea when that boy is ever going to settle down. But I am digressing. What I want to say is, her new behaviour might just be something she adopted to fit in over there. Saudi-Arabia is a conservative country. But here, there are so many things to do for a girl her age. Clubs, bars, men... Life in London is seductive." The three women shuddered. None of them would admit to it, but the idea of children who didn´t drink and didn´t sleep around had a certain appeal. "Really? Zaf?" Lilian asked. Sarah´s youngest son was one of the most unlikely candidates for conservative Islam. One of the best things about Sarah´s parties was that Zaf would occasionally drop by to play the bartender, with everything that entailed, including throwing the bottles around and flirting with the female guests. If only he wasn´t straight. He would make a handsome boyfriend for Greg. "Amen to that." Lilian crossed her arms. "I really wish Greg had gone to Exeter. Right now he seems to do a degree in binge drinking." "So you think all she needs is a good night out?" Amina wasn´t convinced, but she couldn´t think of any other option. Sarah run her fingers through her still luminous, blond hair, a sign that she was thinking. "Rashida is single, I take it?" Amina nodded. She began to see where this was going. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Aren´t you worried that she might get Zaf back into... well, you know." Sarah shook her head laughing and pulled out her mobile phone. "How about dinner on Saturday?" Both women texted their offspring. "Are you free for dinner Saturday night? love you, mum" "You don´t think you should include that they won´t have dinner with you?"Lilian asked.

When Zaf showed up on his parents´ doorstep, he wore the "nice shirt" his mother had requested, but Sarah was dressed more casually (for her standards), in silk pyjamas and a matching morning robe. "What do you mean, you set me up? Set me up how?" Sarah shrugged. "Amina´s daughter is back in the UK again and hardly knows anybody. We thought it might be nice if the two of you got together. Don´t get me wrong, sweetie, but it looks to me like you might need a little bit of help in that area." "Mum, I am thirty. I am perfectly capable of getting dates." In the last month, Zaf had been out with two different women. None of the dates had lead somewhere, but he could hardly be blamed for the crazy hours he worked and the lies he had to tell. Lying to loved ones was the price of being a spook. Sarah petted his cheek. "Of course you are, sweetie. But somehow I never get to meet these women." A normal son would have been annoyed at that level of maternal meddling, but Zaf was a skilled spy. He could tell when people withheld information. "And?" he asked. Sarah looked at him. "Yes, sweetie?" "Come on, mum. I know you. What´s the hidden agenda?" Sarah sat down on the sofa and motioned him to join her. "Well... It´s a bit... sensitive. Rashida is... has... Well, she seems to be going through a similar phase as you did back in school. And we thought that you might..." After squirming around for a while, Sarah divulged the details. Zaf stared at her. "An Arabic Qu´ran doesn´t mean that she is going to blow up Heathrow. You of all people should know that." Sarah had the grace to look ashamed. "Please, sweetie. Only one evening. And if you think that Amina has nothing to worry about, you might want to tell her that. Please, do it for me."

Forty minutes later, Zaf was sitting at a table for two in the Little Bay Restaurant, waiting for his date.

He recognized Rashida the moment she entered the restaurant. She looked like a younger, less ostentatiously dressed version of her mother. Apparently Amina hadn´t given her daughter more notice about the date than his own mother had given him. Or Rashida wasn´t crazy about it either. She was dressed in jeans and a loose pullover, and wore neither jewellery nor make-up. She was underdressed for the fancy French restaurant, but Zaf had to admit that she was attractive. The red of her pullover suited her light brown skin, and her jeans were tight enough to guess her well-toned physique. She looked at her phone, then scanned the room. Zaf guessed that his mum had sent her a picture of him. When Rashida spotted him, she showed a polite smile and walked over. Zaf remembered his manners, got up and pulled her chair back. Rashida lifted an eyebrow. "Well, Mr. Younis. Zafar." "Call me Zaf." Zaf grinned. It had taken him less than a minute to read her. She was deeply uncomfortable with the whole situation. If Zaf tried to loosen somebody up, he usually resorted to Tequila and funny anecdotes. But he sensed that he needed a different approach with Rashida. "So, how did your mum rope you into this?" he asked with a conspiratorial glimmer in his eyes. Rashida shrugged. " _Sarah and I already set this up, it would be embarrassing to call it off."_ she mimicked Amina accurately. She gave him a lopsided grin, then became serious again. "Listen, I am sorry that my mother did this. I don´t want to take up too much of your time. So let´s just pretend we spent the evening together and mutually decided that we didn´t connect." Zaf was surprised at the hard tone in her voice. He was annoyed at his mother for meddling as well, but surely it wasn´t that bad? He wondered if she knew her mother´s true intentions. "Just one question, then I will be out of your hair." "Sure." Zaf adopted a more serious manner. Obviously Rashida was mortified about the setup. Being flirty would only irritate her more. "What version did our mothers tell you? Version one, ´she just came back to the UK and can´t take care of her social affairs´, or version two, ´Help, my daughter might be an extremist and you have to shag her back to sanity´?" Had this been an intelligence operation and Rashida an asset he had to recruit, this would be the moment he knew he had her. She was in a state of intense emotional vulnerability. Obviously, she felt betrayed and misunderstood by her mother. She had to be lonely, too. After three years abroad it had to be hard to reconnect with old friends. He´d say "Having faith isn´t a crime. It´s admirable." Then he´d catch her off-guard by reciting a passage from the Quran. But Rashida wasn´t an asset. She was the daughter of his mum´s friend, and she was in pain. "How much did your mother tell you about me?" he asked back. Rashida looked surprised. "That you are notoriously single and have a job at the city planning department. Stable salary, good retirement plan." Before Zaf could stop himself, a smirk escaped him. He shook his head, serious again. "When I was sixteen, I got involved with a strict Muslim group, which alienated me from quite a few of my old friends. I spent a lot of time at the mosque while they were growing up as normal teenagers. Whatever ´normal´ means nowadays." he added. Rashida looked at him like she was only now beginning to truly see him. "Mum still calls it my `phase´." he continued. Both fell silent when the waiter came and handed them the menus. Zaf ordered a beer, Rashida a soda. Rashida continued to look at him. Clearly, she wanted to say something but didn´t know how. "What attracted you about that group?" she finally asked. Had he tried to recruit her, he would have told her something about the rarity and the high value of faith in modern, western societies. But for some reason he felt the need to be honest. "I fell into it out of weakness. It was a crutch. I´d been turned down by a couple of white girls because of my skin-colour, and I had difficulties getting served in some pubs. I started thinking seriously about my upbringing. My dad is something of a part-time Muslim, you see. He gives money to charity, but he also drinks. I began to resent that. I began to resent him. I felt that he had betrayed his roots. Then I fell in with a bad crowd at the mosque. They weren´t extremists, but they were quite radical. I mean, they didn´t believe in jihad and killing non-Muslims, but they were very strict with themselves and others. They felt we - Muslims in the West - had strayed. Gone soft. When they talked among each other, they had a pretty violent rhetoric. Change the world or burn it. It was an intoxicating thought for a while. I felt like I belonged." When the waiter came with their drinks, they fell silent again. To Zaf´s surprise, Rashida ordered the pork. He decided on spaghetti. Mostly because you couldn´t eat them without making a mess. Watching people eat spaghetti did wonders for resolving tension. "What made you stop?" Rashida asked after making sure the waiter was out of earshot. Zaf smiled at the memory. "There was a white girls. Actually, many girls. I started drinking again. Discovered snakebite. Beer with cider." he added. He studied Rashida closely. She had listened attentively, without any trace of judgement. "I am not the first person you told that, right? You sounded very... coherent." Zaf was struck by how perceptive she was. He had told that story before once. During the vetting process for MI-6. Now it was Zaf´s turn to feel vulnerable. For the first time in ages he had told more than he actually wanted. There was something about her deep, dark eyes that made him open up. "So, what about you?" he asked.

Zaf watched Rashida lean back in her chair and frown. "I am not sure if I can explain that properly. But I will try my best." She fell silent again. Zaf could tell that she was doing more than ordering her thoughts. She was censoring them. Whatever story she was going to tell him, it would not be the whole of the matter. "When I left for Riyadh, I knew on an intellectual level what expected me. But there was so much more to it... It was... There was a lot more violence over there. I won´t go into specifics, but I saw quite a bit of violence. You know, I was raised to have faith in people. In their intentions. I was raised in the belief that people would decide to do the right thing because it was the right thing, and not because doing the wrong thing was illegal, if you know what I mean." Zaf nodded. "But over there I saw how many people would do what I´d consider the wrong thing - taking advantage of those who are weaker, more vulnerable - because it was not illegal to do so. Not in a way it would be here. In some respect, it was easier for some people to be immoral. So I... I kind of lost faith in the ability of people to do the right thing just for the sake of it. A while ago a stumbled over a novel, _Salmon Fishing in the Yemen._ In a nutshell, it´s about a Yemeni sheikh who teams up with a British scientist to bring the sport of fishing to the Yemen. There is a quote... Promise you won´t laugh." Zaf nodded again. He couldn´t help but feel angry at Amina Ahmadi. Her daughter had a lot on her mind and needed to share it with someone who´d understand - or at least not judge - her. Clearly, Amina was not that person. "I won´t laugh." he said earnestly. Rashida gave him a quick smile. "Pretty much at the beginning, the sheikh explains his reason for wanting fish in the Yemen. And there´s just something about it. _It would be a miracle of God if it happened."_ she quoted. " _If God wills it, the summer rains will fall and fill the wadis, and the salmon will run in the river. And my countrymen - all classes and manner of men - will stand on the banks side by side and fish for the salmon. And their natures, too, will change. They will feel the enchantment of the silvery fish, and the overwhelming love for the fish and the river it swims in. And then, when talk turns to what this tribe said or that tribe did, or what to do with the Israelis or the Americans, and voices grow heated, then someone will say: Let us arise and go fishing._ " She cleared her throat, embarrassed. "Religion is a question of perspective. And this was the first perspective on religion that... spoke to me. It may sound naive, but after reading _Salmon Fishing_ I read the Quran with that perspective. Yes, there is a lot of violence in it. But what I took from it was that Allah wants us - all of us - to... well, to love each other. Or at least, not bash each other´s heads in." She shrugged and blushed. "Anyway... Are you kidding me?!" Rashida sat opposite Zaf with her back to the door, facing the massive mirror on the rear wall. "What?" Zaf hissed. He instantly fell into spook-mode, scanning the whole room without turning his head, keeping his facial expression relaxed. Rashida rolled her eyes and got out her phone. "Unbelievable." When she dialled, a mobile phone at the other side of the room rang. "Mum, I can see you." Rashida spoke into the phone. Amina Ahmadi and Sarah Younis emerged behind a couple of massive potted plants. "We wanted to see how the two of you are getting along." Amina said breezily. Sarah shot her son an apologetic smile. "Mum, seriously..." Rashida started, but Amina raised her hand. "There is no need for you to get upset, darling. And if you are, we can talk about that at home." Rashida pushed her chair back. "Oh, we will." She turned to Zaf. "Listen, thank you for... for..." "Any time." His grin made Rashida blush. Behind her back, the mums exchanged a knowing look. But Amina didn´t have time to say anything, because a moment later Rashida almost dragged her out of the restaurant.


	2. Chapter 2

But when Rashida and Amina arrived home, the young woman went up to her room without a word and locked the door behind her. She didn´t want to give her mother the satisfaction of seeing how much the evening had affected her. She had expected Zaf to be just another vapid player when her mother told her about the set-up. Yes, he was handsome, charming and funny. Rashida didn´t doubt that he had no shortage of dates. But beneath his easy charm there was an earnestness that had touched her. He had talked to her like he understood. Finally, somebody who did.

"You will have to talk to me at some point, you know." She heard her mother´s voice outside her room. Rashida didn´t answer. Instead, she pulled the prayer rug out of the cupboard. She was so immersed in the evening prayer that she didn´t hear the beeping of the incoming text message on her phone. _Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim. In the name of God, most compassionate, most merciful._ Rashida needed all the mercy she could get. Physically she was back home, but she couldn´t regain the sense of safety that had always been a part of home. Before she left for Saudi-Arabia. Now Rashida´s dreams were haunted by bearded faces, gunshots and the heat of the Arabian desert. Rashida couldn´t shake the feeling that her business there was still unresolved. She had been unable to tie up the loose ends. But did that mean that she would have to look constantly over her shoulder for the rest of her life? The prayer didn´t bring any answers, but a small measure of peace. She put the rug away, then noticed her blinking display. The message was from Zaf. _Just wanted to say that I had a good time tonight (despite the crazy mums). How about a drink next week? Comedy night at the Ten Bells Pub on Monday._ Rashida smiled. Suddenly the night seemed a little less scary and her room a little less cold. She hesitated a moment before texting back. _Sounds fun._ She would be in need of some cheering up. Monday was her first mandatory session with the in-house psychologist to work through any traumas she might have after her years abroad. Rashida didn´t exactly look forward to it. But it was a necessary evil in order to be cleared for another tenure abroad. Rashida had been thinking about her next destination for quite some time. After the hardship post in Saudi-Arabia, she was now eligible for more coveted places like the USA or France. Rashida had been toying with the idea of moving to Israel next. She hadn´t told her parents yet that she wanted to leave again. Her father was more often on his business trips than he was at home, and talking to her mother was… Rashida sighed and looked at her mobile again. She smiled, mentally picking an outfit for Monday night.

Ruth watched as Zaf turned off his computer and pushed his chair back. "Right, then. I´m off. See you tomorrow." He wore a blue dress shirt Ruth had never seen on him before. When he put on his leather jacket, she smiled to herself. He was dressed to impress. "Have fun on your date." Adam commented from his desk. Zaf shot him a cheeky grin. "Not a date. Just a friend of the family." And off he was. Jo came over to Ruth´s desk. "He is looking pretty sharp for a friend." "M-hm." Ruth only half-listened. Instead, she was looking at the photo on her desktop. It showed a brown-skinned, middle-aged man, dressed in dirty clothes, holding a rifle over his head. It looked like a still from a video. "Who is that?" Jo asked. "CIA knows him only by his nom-de-guerre, Saif al-Islam. Sword of Islam. He seems to be the head of an Al-Qaeda cell in the area around Mecca. They heard whispers that he is branching out to Europe now. Nothing concrete, though." She made a beeline to Adam´s desk. Jo kept looking at the photo. On either side of Saif al-Islam was a man. Both dressed in simple, dirty clothes. Jo noticed the knifes in their belts. The men seemed to be looking right at Jo. The intensity of their gaze sent a shiver down her spine. She had only been working properly for a couple of weeks and wasn´t accustomed to the horrors she had seen lately. Maybe Adam was right and she should have taken the room Zaf had offered her. She kept her eyes on the man on Sai al-Islam´s right side. Something about his gaunt face gave her the creeps. He looked… dead. There was no other way to describe it. Suddenly Jo remembered a particular moment in her training. A Special Forces team had been invited to talk about the psychological impact of violence. Not to the recipient, but to the perpetrator. One of them, a hook-nosed Irishman with surprisingly sad eyes, had waited until his colleagues had finished their tall tales about successful missions. "No way to sugarcoat it. Killing should never come too easy for you. When you lose the respect for life, you lose a part of yourself. There will be moments when you have to make impossible choices between the lives of your colleagues, the lives of civilians, and the lives of criminals. I am not saying _Don´t kill._ If you have to kill, do it as quick and painless as possible. Be sure that you are doing it to prevent a greater evil. If you enjoy it, you have the wrong job. But enjoyment or not – kill too often and it will poison you." As Jo looked at the picture, she began to understand what he had meant.

The Ten Bells was packed, but it didn´t take Zaf long to find Rashida. She sat on a stool at the bar, her hands clutched around a mug of tea, looking too serious for somebody who was about to watch stand-up comedy. The barkeeper kept shooting contemptuous glances at her – ordering tea at a pub was a mortal sin. Zaf noticed that Rashida had put quite a bit more effort into her appearance than for their dinner. She wore a short-sleeved, red shift dress and high heels. She had even put on make-up. Before Zaf had time to wonder what was causing her worried face, she lifted her head and looked at him. In an instant, her frown was replaced by a smile and her eyes lit up. Zaf had been at his job long enough to distinguish a real smile from a fake one. Rashida was genuinely glad to see him, but there was something else. She looked more troubled than during their dinner. _Something happened_ Zaf deduced. "You might wanna take it easy. Chamomile is strong stuff" he joked, looking at the tag on her teabag. Rashida grinned. "Work hard, play hard, drink hard." Zaf ordered a beer for himself and more tea for Rashida, then they moved to a table with a good view on the stage. He had to find out what was troubling Rashida. Zaf had a feeling about her. He remembered what she had told him during their dinner. _There was a lot more violence over there. I won´t go into specifics, but I saw quite a bit of violence._ She was worried, and not just about the strained relationship with her mother. Whatever she had seen in Saudi-Arabia, it was haunting her. Zaf knew the feeling. Usually he was good at shaking off bad memories, but some of them would always stay with him. "Tough day in the office?" Rashida smiled ruefully. "Is it that obvious? Sorry. There´s just some stuff employees who have been abroad have to do after getting home. Never mind." She briefly shook her head. Now her smile looked more genuine. Obviously, Rashida was prone to overthinking and over-analyzing. _Like Ruth_ , Zaf thought. Then it hit him. Rashida had been overseas for three years, her family had only a rough idea what she had been doing. Zaf remembered his own time at MI-6. After his first (and so far only) posting in Morocco for eighteen months, there had been a painfully thorough debriefing. If she truly was a spy, she must have been recruited and trained during his tenure abroad. He made a mental note to check the MI-6 personnel files first thing in the morning. Rashida watched him attentively. "You okay? Tough day in the office as well?" She flashed him a little grin. Zaf rolled his eyes. "Nah, just boring. So, entertain me." It was a cheeky thing to say, and once Zaf had gotten into a heated argument with a date because of it. ("Who do you think I am, your entertainer?!"). But he sensed that Rashida needed to be teased a bit. Rashida chuckled. She pulled a pack of cards out of her bag and began to shuffle them expertly. "Pick one, look at it, and put it back without showing me." Zaf raised his eyebrows when she spread out the cards with a flourish in-front of him. He picked one, then stuck it back in the pack. Rashida shuffled the pack again. Theatrically, she closed her eyes and mumbled something in Arabic. "My spider senses tell me that…" she pulled out one of the cards. "this is yours." Zaf whooped when she turned over the King of Hearts. "Nice. I salute your spider senses." Rashida put the cards back into her bag. "That´s nothing. You should see what I can do with a wooden box, a saw and a leggy, blonde assistant." Rashida leant back comfortably and crossed her legs. Zaf wondered if she knew how sexy her legs looked in those heels. Probably. Suddenly the room went dark, then the spotlights at the stage went on. Under the applause of the room, "Delicious Dave" _,_ a smartly dressed man in his thirties went up and took the microphone. "What up, London? Y´all ready for some fuuuuun?" Zaf fought the impulse to facepalm himself. The guy had an obnoxious, nasal voice and more product in his blond hair than Zaf had in his bathroom. "Guys, I gotta tell ya. Your public transport is a menace. We New Yorkers, we are used to some pretty rough stuff. But frankly, I thought I wasn´t gonna make it here today." Like on cue, a group of yuppies in the corner began to laugh. They looked pretty trashed already. The comedian smiled and carried on. "I was on the subway… sorry, the "Underground" with a bunch of men who looked like they were right out of a Jihadi training camp. And they wore those massive coats like they were hiding suicide-vests, speaking in some strange gibberish…" Rashida and Zaf stared at him. "Yeah." Rashida said a bit too loudly. "What kind of freak wears a coat in February?" Dave squinted to spot the perpetrator. "Well, hello there, young lady. Of course you´d talk trash at me. Those fellas were most likely some of your cousins. And who´s the… ahem… gentleman you´re with? Let me guess… arranged marriage? How much did he pay for you? Three camels and a laptop?" The group of yuppies in the corner shrieked like hyenas. Zaf crossed his arms. "Nah, that wasn´t necessary. I just spiked her drink, then date-raped her. And because I am on the swim team, I got away with no consequences whatsoever." Rashida fought hard to suppress a laugh. "You know, when you´re a star, we let you do it. Whatever you want. Grab us by the pussy, for example. And you could still become President." Dave´s face turned crimson. He had not expected the well-dressed, attractive couple to retort by referring to the Brock Turner-case and Donald Trump´s crude comment. He frowned and put the microphone down. "Geez, you Brits have no sense of humor. You now what? I don´t need this." He stormed off the stage, under the roaring applause of a hen party. "You go, girl!" one of the women yelled. Zaf raised his glass and clinked with Rashida´s. "To three camels and a laptop."

Nobody noticed the gaunt-faced, dark-skinned man in the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

The minute Zaf stepped into the room, he heard Harry´s booming voice. "Zafar! My office, right now!" Zaf looked at Adam and mouthed "What´s with him?" Adam shrugged. So Zaf had no choice but to face the wrath of his boss unprepared. Harry stood next to his desk and pointed to a chair facing his laptop. "Sit." There were a million places Zaf would rather be right now, but Harry sounded so furious that he obeyed. He found himself staring at the laptop with a livid Harry breathing down his neck. "So, you had a fun night, did you?" The laptop showed the website of the Ten Bells Pub. There were about 10 photos of him and Rashida, and twenty more of "Delicious Dave" dropping the microphone and storming off-stage. The photographer had chosen an unlucky angle, Zaf was fully visible. At least the only parts of Rashida on the images were her back and the back of her head. "Go on, scroll down." Harry´s voice was deceptively calm. Underneath the pictures was a lengthy article from the Ten Bells in-house blogger about the couple that had eviscerated the "Yankee piece of shit". "Well, at least there are no names." Zaf ventured. "Scroll down." Harry said again. And Zaf saw what Harry had meant. _1000 Likes, 345 shares. 346, 347 shares…_ Zaf swallowed. Were his photos going viral? "Want to tell me about the charming lady you were with?" Harry was using a voice Ruth called "Bernardo Gui", after the Medieval inquisitor in her favorite novel "The Name of the Rose." Zaf thought for a second. It would take Harry probably not more than one phone call to find out if Rashida worked for MI-6, but Zaf suspected that this wouldn´t be the best moment. "Friend of the family." he said as smoothly as possible. Technically, that wasn´t even a lie. Harry opened his mouth to give Zaf a piece of his mind, but a knock on the door interrupted him. "Not now." Harry bellowed. Ruth opened the door hesitantly. "Harry, you might want to see this."

Ten minutes later, the whole team was assembled in the briefing room. Ruth had already started the computer and projected a rather graphic photograph on the white wall. A man, lying on his back in an alley with his throat slit. "Police just sent it over. Mark Bingley, 27 years old. Worked at the Ten Bells as photographer. He was killed between 1 and 3 o´clock in the morning." "Ten Bells?" Harry and Zaf echoed. Ruth paused to give them time to explain, but Harry gestured her to go on. She cleared her throat. "Well… The way his throat was cut was expert. The coroner suspects that the killer knew exactly what he was doing. He must have used a hunting knife." "Any suspects yet?" Adam asked. Ruth shrugged. "The police started looking into the crowd at Ten Bells the night of the murder. According to the pub manager, Bingley used to take his camera with him when he left work. But there was no camera on his body. Whoever killed him, might have taken it. Which might mean that the killer was at the pub that night and might be on the pictures." "But…" Zaf interrupted her. "The pictures are already online. Bingley must have uploaded them at the pub after his shift." "A detail the killer might not have known. Police are checking that right now. A mugger wouldn´t have slip his throat from behind. The officer on the case said the injury reminded him of Islamic State beheading videos, he thought we might be interested and – "She stopped mid-sentence and looked at Zaf. "You were at the Ten Bells yesterday, weren´t you?" "Riiiight. How was your date?" Jo piped in. Before Harry had time to give Zaf another piece of his mind, the phone in his office rang. Harry swore under his breath and went to pick up the call. "If this isn´t important, someone is going to suffer." he muttered. When Harry was out of earshot, Adam turned to Zaf, who was looking unusually preoccupied. "You okay?" Zaf shrugged. "Saif al-Islam… You said he has his power base in Saudi-Arabia?" Adam looked puzzled, but Ruth nodded. "Around Mecca. Why?" "It´s a weird coincidence, isn´t it?" Zaf frowned. "He branches out, and a couple of days later we find a guy with his throat cut." "Well, it is more than possible that this is just a coincidence. We can´t even say with certainty that Saif al-Islam has come to the UK." Malcolm said quietly. Zaf shook his head. "No… Yeah. You´re right." Harry opened the door to the briefing room with more force than necessary. "Zafar, would you like to hazard a guess who just called me? Jools Siviter." Jo was the only one who didn´t look annoyed. "Basically the Harry of MI-6." Ruth explained. Harry gave her a dirty look. "He recognized you in the picture, Zaf. Also, he was kind enough to identify your mystery woman. MI-6´s very own Rashida Ahmadi." Zaf sat up straight. "So she does work for 6?!" "You honestly want me to believe you didn´t know?" Harry´s voice didn´t sound as menacing as it did moments ago, though. Zaf looked straight at him. "No, I didn´t. I suspected." Harry sat down and put his head into his hands. "Someday, you and I are going to have a little chat about the right and the wrong way to meet women." Nobody met Harry´s gaze, but Harry could almost hear them think _What makes you an authority on that?_ "Six found someone of interest to them on the photos. They will be here soon. Better lock away everything of value. No offence." he added with a look to Adam and Zaf.

"Relax, would you?" Gerry pushed his glasses up his nose with more vigour than necessary. He had joined MI-6 at the same time as Rashida. Gerry was the Middle-Eastern desk´s intelligence analyst and a textbook nerd. He was also the one who had identified Fadil ibn Altair on the photos. Along with former MI-6-member Zafar Younis. That was just her luck. The one time she was going out with a nice, funny, charming, interesting guy, he was MI-5, counter-terrorism branch. So much for "having a life apart from work." _And why the hell is this even bothering me?_ She stared again at the print-out Gerry had given her. _Fadil ibn Altair._ Rashida felt sick. Siobhan put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She was a dainty Irish woman in her late thirties. "He is on our home turf now. He can´t harm you here." Rashida made a non-committal noise. Being in the same office as Gerry and Siobhan after all this time was weirder than she´d have thought. _You don´t know him_ she wanted to say. But that wouldn´t be fair. Siobhan and Gerry knew his background, they had seen the videos. They knew what ibn Altair was capable of. Rashida shuddered. "On the plus side," offered Gerry, "you´ll get to work with your 007." Rashida lifted an eyebrow. Had she just imagined the bitter edge in his voice? Gerry was introspective enough to know his strengths and weaknesses. As brilliant as he was behind a desk, he was not exactly an action man. According to his personnel files, Zaf was the polar opposite. He didn´t have the patience for research, but his charming and hands-on nature made him an ideal field agent. His former colleagues remembered his fairly poor risk-assessment, though. He and his mentor Adam Carter, who had joined MI-5 not even a year before Zaf, had been the dream team of the Middle-Eastern desk. Now that Rashida thought about it, MI-5´s Section D had swooped up most of the Middle-Eastern desk. Zafar Younis, Adam and Fiona Carter… Poor Fiona. They had heard about her death through the grapevine. What a horrible way to go. _That could be you_ a voice in the back of her head whispered. Ibn Altair´s eyes seemed to follow her from the photo.

"Okay, then." Gerry hung up the phone. The sound of his voice woke Rashida from her thoughts. She hadn´t even heard him talking over the phone. "Siviter wants to keep it on a need-to-know basis with the people from 5." "Meaning?" Siobhan asked warily. Gerry shrugged. "Just information about the operation, but not all the details about the recruitments." Rashida blushed. _Good._ She wouldn´t have been too keen on diving into that with a couple of strangers, Adam Carter and Zaf. Especially with Zaf. "Well then." Siobhan sighed. "To work, folks."


	4. Chapter 4

The moment they stepped through the pods of the MI-5 counter terrorism section, Siobhan Brady transformed from a mild-mannered, well-dressed woman into a pit-bull. She wasn´t the chief of MI-6´s Middle-Eastern Desk for nothing. Harry tried not to flinch when she shook his hand. That woman had a grip like a jaw vice. He only knew her from the last Christmas party of the Joint Intelligence Committee, where they had spent the whole night at the free bar. Apart from some small talk, they had just stared silently into their drinks. Harry had been too preoccupied thinking about Ruth and that… that… that man she had started dating. Siobhan had snuck glances at her mobile phone for the whole night, obviously waiting for a call that never came. She had a reputation of being tough as nails, no-nonsense and highly intelligent. Still, he was more interested in the second woman. Rashida Ahmadi was pretty enough, but not the type of woman Zaf usually went for. She wore a simple, black suit with a white blouse, her hair was tied back into a strict ponytail. No make-up. Harry led them into the briefing room, where his team was already assembled. Ruth was looking especially pretty today. She wore a necklace he hadn´t seen before. A gift from Bernhard? Harry snapped out of his funk just in time to see Zaf smile at Rashida. The last person was a pale, blond guy in Zaf´s age, Gerard Blake. He looked like he´d get along well with Colin and Malcolm. Harry didn´t waste any time with small talk.

"Let´s get to it, then."

Ruth projected a couple of photos on the wall. Group shots of the Ten Bells Comedy night. Harry noticed how Gerry and Rashida exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Siobhan looked straight at the pictures. She picked up a laser pointer. The tiny, red dot found its way to a haggard, stern face in the background. "Fadil Ibn Altair." Jo shot Ruth a brief look. Ruth nodded. "He is one of Saif al-Islam´s men, isn´t he?" She blushed, when all eyes were turned on her. Siobhan nodded. "We have come across him before. To be precise, Rashida has." Rashida swallowed. That was her cue, but everything inside her screamed _Shut up. Nobody needs to know that._ But Siobhan kept looking at her, so she took a sip from her water. "I spent the last three years in Riyadh. There was… We… We had a stroke of luck and found a way into Saif al-Islam´s group. His power base is in the Mecca area, but he has contacts with Jihadist networks in Europe. Mainly the Balkans, but during the last months he started to work his way into the UK. Our aim was to turn a member of his cell and use him as informer. It took a bit of time, but we started to get valuable intel. But…" Harry could see how much effort it took the young woman to keep her face straight and her voice calm. "Ibn Altair found out. He killed our asset." When it was clear that Rashida would say no more, Siobhan took over. "He very nearly killed our people, too. But he wouldn´t come to England simply to tie up loose ends. He is one of Saif al-Islam´s most trusted followers and his attack dog." Harry put two and two together. "They are planning something here. Right. We seem to have to objectives here: first, find out what Saif al-Islam´s cell is planning here, and stop them. Second: keep him from killing your people." He looked very pointedly at Rashida. Rashida held his gaze without blinking. "Finding and stopping them must be our priority." Harry opened his mouth but Zaf beat him to it. "We will. But you will not put yourself in harm´s way. No use to dance around it: you are at the top of his list, aren´t you?" Adam shot him a surprised glance but didn´t say anything. Zaf liked to test boundaries, but it was unusual for him to do it in front of non-Section D – members. Adam expected Harry to admonish him, but he remained silent. Instead, Siobhan gave him a stern look. "Young man, it is hardly your place to give orders to my case officers. Rashida will be part of the task force. She is the only one who knows Saif al Islam and Fadil Ibn Altair in person. Harry, any problems with that?" Harry shook his head. The question had been only a formality. Siobhan might be a hardass, but she knew how to get her way without the other parties losing their faces.

Rashida was just drying her hands when Siobhan came into the toilet. Siobhan raised an eyebrow. "The people at 5 have nicer lady´s rooms than we do. We have some redecorating to do." "Might be time to get rid of the urinals." Rashida shot her a lopsided grin. She had crossed her arms to cover how much her hands were shaking. In an instant, Siobhan turned from the steely head of department into the mum of the Middle Eastern desk. "I know how badly you want to go after al-Islam and Ibn Altair. But there is no shame in changing your mind. You are no use to anyone dead." "No. No, they are mine." Siobhan noticed Rashida´s ferocious expression. "You aren´t responsible for Shahid´s death, either. He wouldn´t want you to risk your life revenging him." Rashida snorted. "Shahid´s death was always a possibility. I knew that I would risk his life by involving him." Rashida was an accomplished liar, but not good enough. The pain in her voice was clear. For Siobhan as well as for Jo Portman on the other side of the door.

Siobhan and Harry handled the rest of the talking. The plan was hatched comparatively quickly: before MI-6 had lost Rashida´s asset, it had gathered enough intel on Saif al-Islam´s plans to identify a mosque in London he was in contact with. Malcolm and Colin had been on the phone for the last hour, trying to get the necessary permits to bug the mosque, Siobhan and Harry were discussing the surveillance arrangements. Rashida had asked to be part of the surveillance teams, but Siobhan had refused. The danger of being recognized was too big. Rashida turned down Gerry´s offer of a lift home. She was in a weird mood and needed to be alone for a while. She pulled her coat tightly around herself and braved the cold February night. The bank of the Thames was lovely at this time of the year. In the dark of the night, the illuminated windows made the river glimmer in an otherworldly light. Rashida stopped to take it in. The laughter of the crowds in the pubs was far enough away to ignore. Shahid´s eager face appeared in her mind. _You know, in the village I grew up… There was this story about a water spirit who lured in unsuspecting men. It scared the living daylight out of me. Water… and beautiful women._ When she had edged closer, he had smelt faintly of sweat and dust. _Are you scared of me?_ She had never been a femme fatale. Somehow, playing that role for Shahid had been… Rashida couldn´t exactly say what. Sweet, unsuspecting Shahid. Rashida had allowed herself to get caught up in her own lies. _We all have a story like that_ Siobhan had told her afterwards, when she had found Rashida sobbing in the toilet.

"Hey." Rashida flinched when she heard the male voice. Zaf. She shot him a quick smile. "Hey." She didn´t know what else to say. The nice guy her mother had set up her with, the guy she had actually grown to like, was part of her world. What was he thinking of her? What would he think of her if he learned the whole truth? Both looked at the river in silence. Zaf was the one to break it. "How are you?" She turned to face him. All the flirtyness from the previous nights was gone, replaced by genuine concern. She shrugged. "Fine. I will be fine. Just a bit tired." Zaf stayed silent, a gentle push to go on. "I was trying so hard to keep my life in Riyadh separate from my life here. Not just the people. I… was a different person over there. And now…" Her voice trailed off. Zaf moved closer. "We do what we have to. And no matter how hard we try, sometimes the people around us get hurt." _His death is on you, traitorous bitch._ She remembered the knife, slick with blood. She should have remembered Shahid´s lifeless body in greater detail. She owed him that much. But she hadn´t looked. Rashida shivered. Ibn Altair was out there with his knife.

Zaf touched her shoulder. "He won´t hurt you. I am not going to let him."


End file.
